Eddie & Corpse-Bro
by David Crap-Writer
Summary: Ever since the dead rose up, Eddie has learnt to avoid bodies. But this particular one at the side of a frozen lake was... too intriguing to ignore.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I have never written nor read in my life. I will not _attempt_ to make anything decent or coherent.

Enjoy.

* * *

Usually I'd leave pale corpses at the side of frozen lakes alone; the undead apocalypse tends to give you an aversion to corpses.

But this guy, this particular guy... he was special.

He laid on his stomach, so frozen he was hard as an erect dick. And he wore a nice, stained, dirt-tawny sweater. Not just your regular nice tawny-colored sweater, though. No, he had the type of sweater that made him look like a dad on Christmas. He looked unassuming, almost approachable.

And that's probably what got me to think: 'Yeah, I'll drag this corpse with me to this unfinished house.' And that's what I did. This dead guy was that intriguing that I decided to bring him with me. I didn't give a damn whether or not he'd come back to life as a walker. I mean, with a sweater like that you wouldn't blame me now, would you?

The house was a mess. It looked like someone raided it clean not so long ago. There was a damp spot—a small butt-print, I can tell—near the fireplace. It was nearly dried up, but it was still there. Couldn't have been more than a day old; just like the vaguely warm ashes still smoking.

I propped up Corpse-Bro near it, facing me, and threw in some plywood, scraps, and some leftover flammable junk I had in my backpack—old cigarette boxes, an Playboy magazine I was tired of, the dried-out tissues I used when "reading" my magazines, that kind of junk.

I cozied up next to Corpse-Bro and warmed myself with the newborn embers of the fireplace. Oddly enough, despite probably floating in a lake for a couple of hours—I could tell that it's only been there a few hours as opposed to days—he was lukewarm, room temperature. I would have stuck a knife in his eye in case he was just reanimating into a walker, but I was too lazy and tired at the time.

I sat there a few hours, till the moonlight shined through the nonexistent roof. I haven't been in proper shelter ever since I left Georgia—an unfinished house in the snow wasn't exactly "proper shelter", but it was better than sleeping in a dumpster, that's for sure. And that blizzard that just passed made me desperate for any cover I can find.

During that time I inspected Corpse-Bro.

He had no damage on his face or head—nothing apparent that would show that he wouldn't come back and eat me, at least; he had a bullet wound on his leg. He had no pulse, so I knew for certain he was dead. He had stubble on his chin, a puberty mustache, unkempt hair and gaunt cheeks, nothing special about his appearance. He was handsome, though, in a non-gay way. He had a machete strapped to his chest, so I know he must've been a badass. He also had an AK-47—or something, it's an automatic rifle, that's all I know—near him when I found him, I forgot to add. I took it with me.

Like I said, I honestly don't know why I was so interested in a corpse. I'm no necrophiliac, to my knowledge. Nor am I gay, I think.

I think it's because he reminded me of Wyatt, my long-lost friend. Now, mind you, Corpse-Bro looked nothing like Wyatt; he didn't have a beard, nor was he sarcastic or reeked of weed like me. But I haven't seen an intact, non-undead human for so long that, honestly, anyone that looked like a bro at first glance would remind me of Wyatt. It didn't matter that he was a corpse.

At that point in time I realized how weird admiring a dead body was, and decided to to scavenge the house for something to open my canned foods with. I had lost my can opener a while a ago, and I was getting sick of having to smash the cans open.

It took me a while, but I eventually found one in the deep end of a drawer.

But as I returned to my bag and my food, near Corpse-Bro, I nearly crapped myself and fell on my ass.

I swear to Jesus, Mary and Joseph, something was wrong about Corpse-Bro; he grew a full beard while I was gone and slicked back his hair.

Now I thought I was high or dreaming or something, so I slapped myself in the face a couple of time. Nothing happened, he still had a beard like Jesus. I tried looking around the place to see if anyone was in the whereabouts. Not a soul to be seen, he still had a beard like Jesus. I tried touching and pulling at the beard, see if it's a mirage or a fake. Nope, nothing happened; yep, it was an actual, real beard like Jesus.

I was so scared. Chills ran like Usain Bolt up and down my spine, I shook like a leaf—there isn't any other way I could describe how I felt, truthfully. Corpse-Bro was like a weeping angel or something, because I have never seen anything like that.

I won't lie, I was hyperventilating at that point. I paced around, stressed out of my mind and trying to process what was going on. I probably should've just shoved a screwdriver up his eye, but I was too blown away by what just happened. I wasn't thinking straight at that point.

This was something straight out of a horror film. Or the Bible. Because as I was pacing around, back turned from Corpse-Bro, he rose up.

* * *

 **Author's note:** With A New Frontier around the corner I decided to make this fic purely to kill time. _Purely to kill time._


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't see Corpse-Bro rise up from the dead, but I sure felt it. I felt it like that tingling feeling you'd get in the back of your head; you can't see something happening behind you, but you can feel it, and you know it's there.

I turned and saw him towering over the room. He was of average height, with an average, apocalypse survivor's stout build, but he still towered over me and the whole room. Like a god.

He stood there, moaning and groaning. Moaning and groaning not like a walker, but moaning and groaning like a man awakening from a long slumber—and no, it didn't sound like he just had sex.

"Clementine... don't come near... don't..." He had a Southern accent.

Dude seemed dazed and confused.

"Uh, Corpse-Bro, are you real? You dazed and confused, bro?" I asked him.

"Corpse-Bro? Who..." He took a few fumbling steps, before finding balance and rigidly planting his feet onto the ground. "Who are you? Where am I?" He clearly asked, stern in tone, but quivering and mumbling at the end.

I didn't exactly know what to do. My eyes darted around in the room until it laid on my backpack. I quickly lunged to it and picked it up. Not-a-Corpse-Anymore-Bro stood back like he was anticipating something and clutched at his chest as if it would protect him.

"Don't worry, dude, I'm not gonna hurt you. I just have something for you." I pulled a beer can out of my backpack and handed it to him. "You might wanna sit down, we got a lot of stuff to talk about, Corpse-Bro." He took it reluctantly.

For the next hour or two I was explaining. Explaining how I found him, explaining how he was when I found him, explaining what happened. Of course, he was just as shocked as I was.

"You sure I was dead? I mean, I grew a beard spontaneously? Just like that? I mean, you sure I wasn't comatose for a time or something?"

"Just like that. Listen, dude, I don't believe it myself, but you rose from the dead like Jesus." I was wide-eyed, looking him up and down during our whole conversation.

Dude stared down at the ground like it was a void. As if there was nothing there—a soldier's thousand mile stare. He had been doing that ever since the conversation started. I'm no expert, but I'd guess that he's pretty shaken by what happened. He whispered to himself sometimes. 'What happened again? I was on the ice, I told someone something, then I fell in. Who was I with? When was this? Why?' I heard him whisper.

He continued doing that, whispering and staring. Just doing that over and over again. He was making sense of it all.

I had to talk, though, you don't just witness a guy rise up from the dead and not ask him about himself.

"I'm sorry if this seems weird, but I never got your name. In fact, I've been calling you Corpse-Bro this whole time." I chuckled, trying to alleviate the strangeness of the situation. "I'm Eddie, by the way."

"Luke." He answered blankly without facing me. He continued staring at the ground before looking back at me, realizing that we were having a conversation. He chuckled worryingly a bit. "I'm sorry, I'm just trying to remember how I got here and what happened. My memory's a little fuzzy." He took a gulp of the beer.

"Understandable. You know, I'd be pretty screwed up if I were to die and come back." We laughed, trying to make the situation less awkward. Then we fell silent again.

We stayed silent for a full 300 seconds, just staring down at the floor, back at each other, at our beer, and taking swigs.

Finally I asked: "You said something, someone's name, I think, when you first woke up. 'Clementine', you said? I don't mean to get too nosy—"

Luke suddenly tensed up, eyes wider than mine when I first saw him rise. His eyes darted around the room, looked at the ashes of the fireplace and the small dried butt-print next to it. "Ah, shit! Clementine!" He dashed through the door and ran to the ice of the frozen lake in front of the house. He ran like a madman, slipping and falling, but continuing to run as if the risk of falling through—again—was nonexistent. He ran around the ice aimlessly until he came across a hole.

"Clem! Clementine, where are you!" He looked into the water and tried to see through it. He splashed it with his hands and dunked them in expecting someone or something to grab on.

There was nothing.

Luke stood up, and spun around, looking for any sign of this 'Clementine'. He heaved as he was running out of breath from all the running and screaming. But he still screamed out: "Clementine! Clementine! Clementine!" He continued doing this until he fell to his knees in defeat. Tears ran down his cheeks, smoking in the cold. His hands, freezing from the ice water, clenched up like beartraps and trembled uncontrollably. He sobbed, in desperation, in frustration, in loss. I stood behind him. I felt bad for, but I didn't dare put my hand on his shoulder. I didn't know this 'Clementine', I couldn't comfort him for losing her.

For a while we just stayed there. He was looking at the distance, and I was looking at him.

"She was like a sister to me." He turned, still on his knees. "We met a few weeks ago. I saved her life from some walkers." He stood up and walked over to the hole in the ice. "She was 11. About the same age my sister would've been, had she not been stillborn. We got off on the wrong foot, but I grew to like her. I think she grew fond of me. Real cute, kinda badass as well." He flicked the frozen tears off his cheeks, and looked over at the hole. "I fell in the water." He pointed. "I told her not to come get me, but she did anyway. Guess she didn't want to lose me... She fell in the ice with me, and I got pulled to the bottom by a walker."

"And then? What happened to her?"

"I don't know... I woke up and saw you."

We both stood there, on the ice, looking around. There was nothing but snow and the whistling cold.

"You saw the butt-print on the floor near the fireplace, too, didn't you?" I asked him.

"Yeah." He chuckled. "She probably warmed herself up over there; I don't know why I ran out here and got all melodramatic. I guess I wasn't thinking straight." He looked at his freezing white hands and yawned. "We'd better get some sleep. All this resurrection and sleep deprivation has gotten us messed up.

"We can search for her in the morning."


	3. Chapter 3

I'm not gay, like I've said, but I did enjoy cuddling Luke when sleeping the night.

We didn't exactly have a choice. All we had to warm ourselves was a dinky fire, the clothes on our backs, and our warm bodies. Luke was tepid, though, he gave off neither heat nor cold. But it was something. Better a lukewarm body than the biting cold.

We awoke at dawn, when the sunlight shined through the trees. The snow outside glistened a slight bit. It didn't thaw, but it was annoyingly wet.

Immediately we set about searching the place for any clues of this 'Clementine'. After a while—5 minutes, to be exact—we discovered some tire tracks and bloodstained snow at the back entrance.

"D'you reckon it's fresh?" Luke poked the tracks, wet mud stained his finger.

"Hard to tell, bro, all this wet snow is making that mud look fresh. It could've been dry and frozen before this morning."

"You say I've been dead for a few hours before you found me?"

"Yeah, dude, you sure as hell weren't dead for a day. How long does that make: about 1 and a half days since you saw Clementine?"

Luke stood up and looked at the tracks, then eyed the bloodstained snow.

"I hope you're okay, Clem..." He whispered to himself, prodding the frozen blood with his shoe. "Eddie, thank you for your help, but I'm going to find her now." He marched to the direction the tracks lead to with a determined look.

For a while—about 2 seconds—I watched him walk away from me. This dude just came back to life and now he was going on a quest to find this little girl, his little sister figure. I caught up to him without hesitation: "Whoa, whoa, whoa, bro. I'm coming with you."

He cocked his brow in surprise: "You sure, Eddie? I mean, we just met. Thank you for taking care of me when I was... 'dead', and all, but you sure you want to come with me? I mean... heck, I don't even know where this leads to or how far."

"You kidding, Corpse-Bro? You just back to life like Jesus. And if Sunday school ever thought me anything: if some bro with a beard comes back from the dead—not as a walker, of course—then you follow that man wherever he goes."

"You think I'm the Messiah?" He chuckled.

"Well you're pretty damn close to it." I smirked.

* * *

"You sure we're going the right way?" I complained.

"Don't get your panties in a twist. They were in a car. If they were in a car then they'd be on a road. So just keep an eye on some fresh tracks." He shut me down with his authoritative Southern voice.

For the past 2 days we followed a road. We didn't know where it lead to, or if we were going the right direction—we had turned at a crossroad when we found the snowy road.

"You sure we shouldn't have turned left instead of right? I'm starting to think that—"

"Eddie, I told you not to worry. Now just keep looking."

The road we had been walking on was long, as far as the eye can see. Clumps of snow blocked our paths at time, but they weren't annoying as the walkers.

Those walkers were everywhere. They roamed the place like mice, pestering us along the way; they were more of an inconvenience than they were a threat. A walker in the winter just wasn't as efficient of a killing machine than a walker in the summer, or autumn, or spring. Or anywhere that wasn't balls-freezing cold. Oh sure they would catch you by surprise—those ones that play dead and all, not the roamers— sometimes and make you shit yourself and all. But a good kick in the head tends to be enough to kill them. Hell, I haven't even used the AK I got off Luke yet.

There wasn't much to see. The road was deprived of anything useful, most of the time. Occasionally we'd find some tracks, but they're half-buried in snow; we can't tell what's recent and what's a billion years old. And sometimes, we'd find some useful stuff inside the abandoned cars: pencils, a nutty bar, a roll of toilet paper, even a lighter. It wasn't much, and it wouldn't last more than 5 seconds, but they were "useful"—especially the toilet paper... I still had some Playboys left in my bag.

If I were to describe where we were in one word I'd say: white. We were searching for this 'Clementine' in an aimless direction, with nothing discernible than white snow, the grey asphalt road only barely shown through a semi-transparent coat of white snow, with the occasional white snow-covered treeline on the road's sides. There was some blood and walker guts specked and caked through the snow here and there, but it became just common enough that we'd ignore it most of the time.

We haven't seen a green road sign for miles—not gonna lie, that was pretty worrying. And it was during this time I'd non-gayly admire Jesus-Bro out the corner of my eyes.

Dude looked unaffected by the cold, unlike me. He had a certain determination in his eyes, the kind that say: 'I'm going to find Clementine. I will find her.' And I admire that. Dude wasn't only a bro like Wyatt—we have yet to smoke weed together, though, so he isn't a "full" bro—but he sure was awe-inspiring.

It was during this admiration session that I fell face-first into the snow.

Luke wheezed for a few seconds, I guess the boring trip made my fall more funny than it actually was—I'm not saying that because I was miffed or embarrassed or anything. Jesus-Bro quickly composed himself like the serious guy he was, because that's what serious guys do.

He looked back at where I had tripped.

"Tire tracks." He observed. "Looks fresher than the ones we've been seeing. We must be close."

"You sure about that, bro?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Just hold on." He offered a hand and pulled me to my feet with ease.

For a mile or two we continued on, seeing a pileup of cars in the distance. As we got closer, we noticed a green road sign covered in a thin layer of snow.. It read 'Rest Area 1 Mile.'


	4. Chapter 4

"No, no, no! NO!" Jesus-Bro screamed in pain, tears streaming down his cheeks. He overlooked a walker frozen on the cold playground floor. "No, no, what happened? Why you?! What the hell happened here." His face was cry-ugly, betraying his usually-beautiful appearance.

I stood there, looking around, making sure that no deadmen sneaked up on us. I felt sorry for Luke, sure, but it was awkward. He was sniveling and snotting all over, more dramatically than when he called out for Clementine—and Clementine was a little girl, last he told me; so unless this girl got smacked by puberty like it were a truck and grew into a 20-year-old woman, this was someone else. I'd put a hand on his shoulder and all, but he keeps pacing back and forth screaming 'No!' and covering his face. It was awkward. Not your mom walking in on you diddling yourself kind of awkward, but more like the my friend is getting screwed over by the world and everyone he knows is dead, dying, or presumably dead kind of awkward.

"No, no, Jane. I thought you'd protect her." He kneeled in front of her. "I mean, dammit, you're one of the only competent people in the group." He tried to touch her face, only for her to screech and snap at his hand.

I coughed to get his attention.

"She was special to me." This guy just can't catch a break now, huh? "I didn't exactly love her, but... we had a thing, I think." He said, kneeling and back face towards me.

Being that he has lost two people dear to him, and not knowing where one of them is, I found it appropriate to make a mental note to find weed. He's gonna need it.

The winds were whistling cold, the surroundings became hazier and the air thicker with white. A blizzard was probably inbound. Probably. Or maybe it was just a windy day, the snow getting kicked up by God's cold-as-Hell breath or something. I'm not a meteorologist.

I finally put my hand on his tepid shoulder, and gave him a good tap on the back. "I'm sorry for your loss, bro, but the winds are freezing. We gotta get inside." I point to a rest stop.

"I just, I just..." He wiped the tears off his face. "I can't leave her like this." He turned towards me. "You can go ahead and make sure the place is safe. I'll take care of her."

I happily obliged. Anything to get out of that situation. It's not that don't feel sorry for him. Like I said, it was just awkward, because it was sad.

The rest stop was mostly empty, safe for a damn-full vending machine. I practically squeed like a little girl when I saw it. Those chips and candy bars may be expired, but it was good enough food for us both for a week. I tried looking for a way to open it. Smashing it would've saved time and have been practical, but I was too lazy and stupid to bother. I might as well make everything a hassle. It's not like I have anything else to do—I'm just on quest to find a little girl with some Southerner that came back from the dead; it's not like anything noteworthy should actually happen; I'm sure there are more interesting things going on in the universe right now; I don't care enough to narrate an interesting story, in all honesty.

Suddenly a walker came out of nowhere and attacked me. It just materialized out of thin air and jump-scared me like an enemy in a badly-made video game. It was almost like it was arbitrarily placed here, behind a vending machine—it was behind the vending machine, I forgot to mention until I did, just now—, just to make something happen. The deadman grabbed my arm like a bear-trap and slobbered his undead saliva all over me like a ravenous dog. I can only assume that he was trying to eat me. We flailed and flailed and flailed, struggle-dancing all over the place. He had my arms firmly in his rotten hands and snapped at my face. I was trying not to get bit, naturally. Every time he snapped I'd jerk my head back, and he missed by the quarter of the quarter of an inch. My face was bukkaked by his undead saliva. There was no other way to describe it, it was just slobbering all over, and probably gave me herpes. Then it hit me: 'I can't kick for diddly. I'll use my only weapon available.' I sunk my teeth into the walker's chin, and violently headbanged. It tasted like putrid meat, I vomited bile all over the walker's chin through my teeth, but I didn't let go. "Bear-trap my arms? I'll bear-trap your face!" I screamed through my fangs. If walkers could feel pain, this one would be in agony. I kept headbanging, I was saving my life by doing what I did whenever I smoked weed in my room and listened to music. I moved my teeth sideways, trying to saw the flesh to get in deeper. I worked without a hitch, and I had my teeth gripped firmly deep onto the walker's jawbone. I flailed my head sideways like no tomorrow, until I heard a crunching snap. I opened my mouth to let go. The jaw made a pathetic wet thump when hitting the floor. He let go of my arm, and I knew this was my chance. I pushed him up against the glass of the vending machine and kicked. It shattered. As he fell on his butt, a jagged shard fell on his head, where a baby's soft spot would usually be. It pierced his skull like a knife stabbing paper. He motioned towards me and gave a hoarse huff, before slumping his head humbly in defeat.

"My... my God." I wiped the rancid blood and my stomach bile off my chin. I vomited a little more, all over the walker. "I should check the rest of the place out."

Nothing else inside, only empty bathrooms. The coast being clear, I decided to go outside and tell Luke about it—why he didn't help me despite the obvious and noisy struggle inside is beyond me. As I peered through the glass, attempting to look through the whiteness outside, a blizzard having kicked up while I was inside, I saw two figures standing.


	5. Chapter 5

_"When the life in your eyes wants black_  
 _Things return_  
 _You've come back_  
 _With your body and mine raised up_  
 _It's good to see you once more..."_

I have not listened to such orgasmic music in so long. In the bathroom, I found a pair of perfectly good batteries for my older-than-dirt CD player. I couldn't pass up the occasion to listen to my favorite song—Black Tables by Other Lives. A woman—Jane, I think he said her name was—just got resurrected by Luke, I might as well take a breather.

Anything to distract myself from Jesus-Bro and Female-Lazarus diddling each other on the rest stop floor. It awkward. Not people diddling each other in front of me like I didn't exist kind of awkward. But resisting the urge to diddle myself to other people diddling each other kind of awkward.

'Hawt', is what I call this. 'Damn pervert' is what Wyatt would call me if he were here. But can you blame me? I haven't seen a woman since before the dead ate people. Sure, she was a butch, but puss is puss. And I was frustrated—I was frustrated that Luke was getting his beak wet, while I had to pretend to be staring at the ceiling and listen to music. I CAN'T DIDDLE MYSELF BUT I WANT TO.

"Ahem." I coughed.

Nope, they were still at it. Slobbering on each other and moaning like teenagers. They exchanged their mouth mucus like fire hydrants. She even bit a nip on his muscled peck like a cannibal.

"Ahem, AHEM."

Nope, still at it. Luke scream-moaned, nutting for the billionth time in her. The walkers outside probably left in fear, because they sounded like ferocious animals.

"Aye yo, can you guys stop, please? The blue-balls is really killing me."

And they don't stop. They don't stop, they refuse to. And they just keep diddling. They keep diddling like it's a ritual, ordained by a power that is; a god in the heavens that types a story and a million more for my shallow eyes and tiny brain.

"Why?" I asked the god above. "Why am I damned to watch two people diddling? Am I supposed to be blue-balled like this for the rest of my life?"

I'm here in an abandoned rest stop, I see two exits and cracked glass, the winds are whistling through. The wind is cold and bitter. It bites my bones and drains the blood that should be in my meat mast—it's only half-mast now.

There are deadmen outside. And Jesus-Bro and Female-Lazarus are still diddling.

Never have I ever seen such defiance. Defiance of decency, of norms, of nature. They diddle like the planet isn't spinning. Like there isn't anyone else watching. Like they don't care that there are people that would rather be looking at something else in the universe.

I was watching two dead people diddling—the weed that I smoked a minute ago (I had one last one in my backpack—screw what I said about sharing it to Luke, he's enjoying himself already, I need this!) is making that clear now.

I know what I must do.

I pull out my mast, half-dangling, and I start putting it full-on. I'm polishing the mast with turpentine of spit, I'm scrapping off the bird poop on the foretop. The beautiful sandpaper friction that is the rubs is turning the mast inside-out. It burns and chafes, but I'm still polishing. I polish like I'm haunted. I polish like a real American, I don't care if the sails have been removed! A mast is a mast, and I polish that stuff even without the sail, even if the foretop is hardwood, coarse and splintered. And I'm looking them straight in the eyes, and they're doing the same, but they give no diddly—they're diddling! I polish the mast, and I polish, polish, polish. The deadmen are running, oh boy, they are running away! They can't handle the human-colored mast! Neither can I, because the spotter's platform exploded and turned into a cannon, it blew white confetti.

I blew confetti and they're still diddling! Fascinating: I'm watching the Nature Channel up in here!

And then I passed out, because I'm light-weight when it comes to weed, mast-pulling and confetti-slinging.

But wait! There's more: In the bouts of consciousness that I came in and out of, they stopped! They stopped diddling, heaving through their lungs like they nearly drowned. And they walked over.

"Eddie, what's with the confetti?" Jesus-Bro asked.

Oh crap, they grabbed my confetti cannon and started inspecting it!

"Looks like the same thing I had on my 13th birthday." The woman held it next to her face.

 **Don't you touch my confetti cannon, woman!**

"You serious? You blowing that stuff all over us like..." And his face turned red.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Alright, so I may or may not have been actually high when I wrote this chapter. So this is more incoherent than Death Grips lyrics.

Don't judge me, you read the disclaimer on the first chapter, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

The long march to see Clementine, the wonderful Clementine of Wherever-the-Heck-She-Ended-Up-At, was an awkward one.

Just the other day I blew my beige-colored confetti cannon at Jane and Luke-Bro. It was embarrassing, my white-colored confetti was all over the place! I was saving that for celebrations, dammit! It was single-use, too, unfortunately.

We were on the road again, trudging through the untainted snow. Luke and Jane were far behind me, talking most of the time. Occasionally I see them giving pecks to each other. Sometimes they're having a full-blown teenager make-out sessions, while I slowly paced forward, waiting for them to get moving. Sometimes they outright ask me to stop and go off to the side of the road, into the woods, and come out after not even 2 minutes—you'd think that a godly man like Jesus-Bro would last longer, but no; it's either that, premature and all, or he's just got the ability to go lightning-fast like the Flash. 'Trigonometry' is what they're doing back there.

It's during those times that I usually think to myself "I should write a book about this. A chapter of the Bible of sorts."

And no one can stop me now, can they? What's the Pope gonna do? It's the apocalypse. He's not gonna excommunicate me, and I ain't no expert on Catholic canon law—or any laws, for that matter—but _latae sententiae_ won't apply to me; nowhere in the Bible does it say that I _can't_ proclaim someone Jesus Reborn—and, as his first follower, and therefore a _de facto_ apostle, I'd be remiss to not write a chapter of the Bible about him. Pope's either dead, or more concerned about the dead coming back to life and eating people, anyway. And this is assuming that he's still alive, or that he even knows about my soon-to-be blasphemy, or if there even is a Papacy still around!

The world is bleak, 'God is dead' some dude that died before all of this bedlam happened in the first place said. People need some hope, and I intend on spreading that—and becoming a saint, and getting mad puss with my sainthood. 'The Book of Eddie' is what I'll call it. It'll be part of the New New Testament, once all the walkers end up dead-dead.

For the past couple of hours, while I waited for them for 2 minutes, for every stop into the woods they make after taking 10 paces, I would take out a roll of the ever so scarce toilet paper from my backpack and write my new homie gospel. 120 seconds is all I need to come up with poetic, apostolic, theological, mathematical fire-words. I'm sure that there's other people in the world that write like this—in a flash, without thought prior, during, or after, nor revisions because they're just that good.

Here's the first line to this thing:

 _In the beginning was the Bro, and the Bro was with Jesus-Bro, and the Bro was Jesus-Bro, bro._

Scholars might say I "plagiarized" John 1:1, but it I call it "inspiration, homage, and intertextuality."

I never really got that far into writing it this day, though. Because sun just set, and we had to find shelter.

Some abandoned truck was our salvation. Jesus-Bro and Female-Lazarus snuggled up in the deep end next to my lamplight—she'l never snuggle with him the way I do!—and I was posted near the shutters, on sentinel duty.

"Ay yo, Luke. Where we heading again? Wellington or whatever it's called?" I asked, vigilantly looking at the pitch black outside for any signs of deadmen.

"Aye, that's the likely place she's gone to. She talked about it to me sometimes." He tightened his big, strong arms around Jane. "It's either that or, like Jane said, Howe's."

"Wellington doesn't exist, baby. Howe's is the better place to go, we better turn around and go there." Her sultry voice that grated my ears was cut off by the manly lips of Jesus-Bro touching hers—which were equally manly, now that I remember. She chuckled, then continued. "I know you miss her, but chasing fables isn't gonna help." She declared, having the audacity to question him.

"Have some faith, Jane."

Damn right you better have some faith, woman!

"Whatever you say, baby. Or is it Jesus-Bro? That's what you call him, no?" She turned to me.

I chuckled, trying to play it off. "Wouldn't you? Dude comes back from the dead and resurrects you, how could you _not_ call him Jesus-Bro?"

Woman better learn some respect and not question the name!

"Fair point." She played with his soft, velvety man-bun and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

That is a godly man-bun! You shouldn't be able to touch it!

"Just hold on, guys. We're getting close, I can feel it. She's out there, I tell you." He took a moment to eye Jane's stab wound. "I came back from the dead, I brought you back from the dead. If I can do that, then I think that I can sense her."

I closed the shutters of the truck trailer, since there wasn't much out there. "We better get some sleep. Go on first thing in the morning."


End file.
